


inferno

by dreamboy



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Unrequited Love, in other news i found more ways of making myself sad, incomplete fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9337658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamboy/pseuds/dreamboy
Summary: "well ya know what they say. if you can't stand the heat, get outta hell."(aka bits and pieces of a fic that will never be whole, but who knows)





	

matty’s room is a mess (well, it always is, but today more so than normal) with empty wine bottles of wine, rolling papers, empty fag packets and needles strewn across the floor. his sheet’s peeled off his mattress, and the mattress fibers keep scratching across his back, but he’s too groggy to do anything about it. thing is—he isn’t even high—other than the small bit of spliff he smoked. he’s coming down, though, and fuck, can he feel it.

george has started doing this dishes with more aggression than he normally would, putting the plates down as hard as he can without breaking them. he doesn’t look at matty, and matty’s kind of glad of it; he’s sure george’s expression would be thunderous.

once george is finished with the dishes he comes back into the bedroom and began to pick up clothes, slamming them into the laundry basket and throwing the curtains open. the light makes him wince.

george pauses over one of the needles.

“smack? seriously?” he asks flatly.

“not smack. iv coke, s’all.”

george snorts, “that’s all, fuckin’ fantastic, then.”

“i’m sorry.”

“this is nothing to do with me, you know that, right? you’re fucking up your own damn life.”

“’m sorry.” matty mumbles the words into his pillow, his hair falling over his face.

“you don’t need to tidy up for me, y’know." 

george doesn’t answer at first. “well,” he says after a bit, “who else will do it?”

last night had truly been something else. draw followed by md, then coke to keep to the buzz going with two xans to take the edge off, then stumbling back to his apartment to dissolve the rest of his coke in water and shoot it up.

“i drove home high.” he confesses suddenly, barely registering the words tumbling out of his mouth. george turns to look at him, but through the gloom his expression is indistinguishable.

“on what?”

“weed, xanax and md.” he doesn’t mention the coke.

george doesn’t speak, the muscles in his back going taut. matty’s mouth goes dry. 

“of course you fucking did.” he said bitterly. “you stupid, stupid fucking child. of course you did.”

he doesn’t say the words ‘and i was stupid for ever thinking you could be better than this’, but matty hears them nonetheless.

matty sits up and rubs his eyes, and in that moment, a beam of yellow lights shines over one side of his face. he finally meets george’s eyes, which are blank, blank blank blank blank.

george shakes his head. “like piss holes in the fucking snow.” 

* * *

 

he hates being alone. sometimes he thinks that when he’s alone he’s like water with no container—nothing to mold himself to, nobody to please. so now that he doesn’t do drugs, he indulges in his most masochistic pastime—reading what people on the internet have to say about him. 

matty likes to pretend he has thick skin, and sometimes he thinks he does, but then he’ll burst into tears because a lad from birmingham with a picture of him and a can of beer as his profile picture called him a crack-smoking cunt.

ross looks over his shoulder and snorts.

“’matt healy looks like a homeless poodle?’” he repeats aloud with a typical ross-like chuckle. then matty sniffs, and ross’s snark melts away in seconds.

“oh my god, matty. it’s alright. the guy looks like a twat, look—it says in his bio that he likes kings of leon and snow patrol. fucking snow patrol, matty. he doesn’t know what he’s on about.”

“y-yeah. i know. he’s an idiot.” 

“y’know what?” ross says, hitting matty lightly on the shoulder. “how about a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive?” 

then ross closes the laptop and ushers matty into the kitchen, where matty watches him make a cup of tea and put five biscuits onto a plate—two for him, he says, and three for matty.

it’s almost funny to see ross bustling about like a mother hen like he is—especially with his burly, tattooed physique, and deep, gruff voice. matty giggles and chokes on his tea, and that makes ross smile.

matty can’t help but feel a little pathetic, though, drifting around his own house like a ghost ever since george left. ross has all but moved in at this point—to cook matty’s meals and make sure he’s not ‘doing anything he shouldn’t be’, in jamie’s words.

“you can’t live off packets of ryvita.” their manager had told him.

* * *

 

when matty was twenty-one, back before they were the 1975, he’d gotten vodka drunk. 

this had been a bad idea in itself, because matty hated vodka and vodka hated matty, and the both of them had been content to keep their distance from one another throughout all these years. but today, for some reason, the bottle of smirnoff’s sitting in the sainsbury’s local was calling his name. 

the stuff had made him vomit, and george had stood over him, occasionally rubbing circles into his back.

“i love you.” matty had said, as he lay in george’s bed, after having had a hot shower and changing into george’s pajamas. george lay on the floor next to him, since he’d let matty have the bed that particular night.

“yeah, man. i know.”

“no, i _love_ you.”

for a long few seconds, george didn’t speak. “yeah,” he said. “i _know_.”

that had made matty dissolve into even more sobs, and george had gotten up with a sigh and made matty some peppermint tea and gotten him a paracetamol, but matty hadn’t stopped crying anyway.

the next day, when matty was hungover and george was exhausted, they’d pretended it hadn’t happened.

* * *

 

when george was thirteen and matty was fourteen, george had thought he was the coolest person in the world. 

matty was in the year above and played drums too, and he’d been expelled from his last school, and he went to parties with the year 11s, and he smoked roll-up cigs behind the bike shed at break. george had been lanky and awkward with weird hair, but even then, matty had wanted him to be in his band.

* * *

 a few days after the bender incident, george had told matty he was going to brazil. and he wasn’t sure when he’d be back. 

matty hadn’t cried. matty—who cried when he was sad, when he was frustrated, when he was happy, when someone yelled at him, when he was particularly proud of a song, when he watched weddings on the telly and when bambi’s mum died even though he’d seen the film hundreds of times.

he’d wondered around his house, a stranger in his own home, only really getting out of bed to fetch a bottle, a glass of water, or the pack of ryvita. the house was a lot bigger than he remembered.

* * *

 george leans over him and looks down to him, and for a second, matty wonders if he might do anything to him. really, matty’s little and he’s skinny and if george was high enough and the lights were off he could pretend he was a girl, because after all, a tight hole is a tight hole and a wet mouth is a wet mouth. terrifyingly, matty thinks he might let george do whatever he wants.

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know if you like this style, ik its different to That 70s Fic, so im curious. maybe ill make it into a novella, probs wouldnt be matty/george tho....


End file.
